From the midst of the shoving gusts, black shadows rippled over the ground and boiled up, forming shapes that became solid. No faces, no hands, no feet—no clothes, duh. But they did have arms and legs and a head, which he guessed ran the program God, the stink. They smelled like rotten garbage, a combination of sulfurous egg and sweaty, spoiled meat, and they growled as wolves did when hunting in a coordinated pack.

This was evil up and moving, darkness in tangible form, a four-set of nasty, festering infection that made him want to take a bath in bleach.

Just as he settled into his fighting stance, the back of his neck went off, that ringing alarm he’d felt the night before tweaking its way into the base of his brain. His eyes shot up to the house in a fuck-no . . . except he was certain that wasn’t the source.

Whatever—he needed his game head on big-time.

As one of the shadows rolled up into his space, Jim didn’t wait for the first strike—not his style. He swung wide with his crystal knife and kept going as he ducked under a blow that snapped out farther than he’d expected.

Got some elastic in ’em evidently.

Jim did make contact, though, nicking something that caused a spray of liquid to shoot in his direction. In midair, the splash morphed into buckshot pellets that then dissolved when they hit him. The sting was instant and intense.

“Fuck!” He shook off his hand, momentarily distracted by the smoke rising from his exposed skin.

The blow landed on the side of his face and made his head ring like a bell—proving that he might be an angel and all that shit, but his nervous system was still decidedly human. He immediately went on the offensive, outing a second knife and double-blading the bastard, forcing the thing into the bushes while he ducked those punches.

As they engaged, the back of his neck continued to holler, but he couldn’t afford to be distracted.

Fight what was in front of you first. Then deal with what came next.

Jim was the first one to get a kill in. He lunged when his opponent arched forward, his crystal dagger going in at the gut level. As a rainbow explosion of light flared, he twisted away, covering his face with his arm to block the deadly spray, his leather-covered shoulder taking the brunt of the impact. The splattering of shit steamed and stunk like battery acid—burned like it, too, as the blood of the demon ate through the cowhide and headed for his skin.

He immediately fell back into fighting stance, but the other three oilers were covered: Adrian was handling a pair and Eddie was all over his guy . . . demon . . . whatever the fuck it was.